Critical Mass
by Wild Iris
Summary: When young Ffamran visits his father's laboratory, he doesn't expect what he finds inside.


**Critical Mass**

'My son's name day.' Beaming, Father tosses a handful of chops to the ardents who've scrambled to hail them a taxi. 'Now, have yourselves a nice afternoon, fellows. Light be upon you.' The ardents scatter as quickly as they appeared.

Ffamran slides across the upholstered seat to the window. A small part of him is glad to be off the streets. It's been pleasant, strolling in the sunshine through the busy shopping crowds, stopping to have his hair ruffled by dozens of people who all seem to know Father; but then they always ask how his mother is, and say they're sorry she's been sick so long. 'A complicated case,' Father responds. 'Finest doctors at the Akademy.' Ffamran justs want them to stop talking, let him forget for now that he's deliberately escaped the sickroom and the fretful younger boys.

None of those people can follow them now, though, unless they get an aircar of their own. The taxi rises above the glittering roofs of Nilbasse. The small figure of an ardent woman, shielding her eyes, watches them fly towards Central with what he knows must be longing. The walkway was removed when he was younger. Now flying is the only way in. 'It keeps private things private,' is how Father explains.

The taxi lands smoothly outside a red-brick building. The building's intricate walls and towers are trimmed with green tile; it's so tall he can't look up its full height without being dazzled by the sun. When they climb out, it's strangely quiet without ardents rushing to be of service. No one comes to greet them. There are no windows at the lower levels of the building, and there's just one solid door.

'Are you sure you wouldn't rather go to the theatre, hmm?' The sun glints off Father's spectacles, making it impossible to tell if he's winking. 'This establishment might not be as exciting as a boy's imagination.'

'I'm sure, Father. Why wouldn't your work be exciting to me? It's exciting to you.'

Father grins and starts punching numbers into a pad by the door. Ffamran presses close behind him, wanting to see what will be revealed when the door opens. He can't quite explain, even to himself, why he chose to visit Draklor laboratory as his name-day treat. But Father spends so much time there - even more since Mother became sick - that what's inside must have a fascinating pull. He knows Father designs airships, and he imagines that deep within the building lie ships even faster and more beautiful than those at the aerodrome, waiting to fly.

The door opens with a hiss. On the other side is a tiled lobby, lit by cool, artificial light and empty except for notices hung on the walls. Father waves him through and presses more buttons to seal the door behind them. Faintly, somewhere in the building he can hear the rumble of machinery. It's a normal working day here, of course; he's been warned to be careful around the researchers and their experiments.

'Ah, my domain.' Father laughs. 'A serious place, of course, a place of business, where we make things that are used all over Archades. But once the door is shut, still, my little playground. Even the Emperor could not enter here unless he knew the code.'

'You would let the Emperor in, though, Father? If he wanted to come in?'

'Of course, my boy! Not only am I his loyal subject, but I delight in sharing my research with those who fund it and will one day reap its rewards.'

'How often does the Emperor come?'

'Oh, every so often. He's an old man, you know. Older than me, even! He's past playing with toys. But others from our city's elite come to see what we're inventing. Knowledge is power, hmm? Even for princes.'

Ffamran knows his father is talking about Lord Vayne: the Emperor's handsome, charismatic son everyone loves. Lord Vayne's been to dinner at their house and spent long hours with Father in his study afterwards. He's given money from his own pocket, too, when Father's been short of funds for a project. Lord Vayne takes an interest in everything.

'Come!' Father claps his hands. 'The first research labs are this way.'

He opens one of the doors that lead further into the complex. They're electric, like the front door, with slots that flash green when Father swipes a card. 'My own design,' he explains. 'In the event of a break-in, I can seal all the doors in the building. The intruders will be trapped like rabbits, whining helplessly until a Judge comes to take them away.'

'Has that happened?' Ffamran steps through the door extra smartly, looking at the inch-thick steel. Before them stretches a corridor lined with more doors, all identical except for numbers engraved at head height.

'Of course. Rival researchers, Rozarrian spies, malcontents from our own city who fail to understand the need for developing weapons.'

'What happened to them?'

'My dear boy,' says Father, opening door number _3_ , 'I really don't ask.'

There are no airships in this room. There's a long table covered with equipment, glass jars and metal trays and coils of wire. At the centre is a rock suspended in a drum of clear liquid, from which wires run to various devices that buzz and tick. Two people, a man and a woman in plain tunics, watch the devices.

The rock draws his gaze. It glows weakly, illuminated from within. The liquid around it slowly agitates and makes the wires quiver.

'Dr Bunansa!' The woman straightens and puts down the pad she's holding. 'And a handsome young visitor, I see.'

'My son, Ffamran mied Bunansa. Ffamran, this is Adela.'

'It's nice to meet you. Blessings on your name day.'

Ffamran shakes her hand, smiling politely as tries to gauge how far her friendliness is real. In Archades, people spend so much time currying favour that it's hard to tell.

Father inspects the rock in the tank. 'An older specimen,' he observes. 'It's almost burned out.'

'We're studying how long it takes for the energy to dissipate completely.' The male researcher indicates a graph plotted on a board. 'This specimen has been active for six weeks and is down to one-tenth of its original output.'

'We've been running two sets of experiments in parallel,' Adela adds. 'In the first, we let the energy dissipate naturally. In the second, we drain it through stimulation.'

Ffamran draws closer. The rock's glow is faint but steady, the blue of glossair rings. If he were younger, he might have wanted to touch it, but there's something disturbing in the power of that cold, silent lump.

'Is that magicite?' he asks.

'Indeed it is. Beautiful, hmm? Shipped here from the mines of Bhujerba, the finest on the open market.'

'Many people never see magicite in its raw form,' Adela says. 'But that stone is the same substance that powers an airship.'

Of course, Ffamran knows how airships work; he spends as much time around them as he can. But knowing the theory is one thing. It's strange to look at a rock smaller than his head and know it has power to move a passenger liner, or even the aircar that brought them from Nilbasse.

Father seems less impressed. He gives the researchers' graphs a challenging look over the top of his spectacles. It's the same look he gives his children when they fail to answer a question correctly.

'Let's move on, hmm, and leave these fine minds working. There's plenty more to see. More than seventy rooms in this building. Don't look alarmed, we won't be visiting all of them!'

Out in the corridor, Ffamran asks, 'Why are you researching magicite? Is it to make better airships?'

'Yes, in part. The more we know of how magicite emits and consumes its power, the more efficient we can make our engines. We can make bigger airships, or faster airships, or airships that can go for longer without refuelling. One day, we could even build an airship that flies in jagd. Imagine that! It would be a revolution in travel across Ivalice.

'Our other interest in magicite is weapons research. As you know, some of the work we do here has military applications. The military uses of magicite have been little explored, but are fascinating to contemplate.'

'How would you use magicite in a war? Apart from powering airships?'

'It can be made to do curious things, in the right conditions. Here, I'll show you.'

Father unlocks another door, number _6_. 'This is a restricted area. The name day boy is privileged!'

This room is divided by a wall of clear glass. On the near side is another pair of researchers, scribbling on notepads, and a panel of monitoring equipment. On the other side of the glass - He has to blink, because the things there are obscured by a thin fog that shifts and slowly changes colour. A dozen or so magicite rocks lie in an open container. Stacked around the container are cages. He counts three rabbits, a sparrow, a couple of rats, and a fleabitten dog that looks as though it came off the street.

The animals are alive - he can see the bird's beak opening, and a rabbit scrabbling a cage door - but no sound comes through the glass. The room is silent except for pens scratching and the hum of machinery.

Father peers through the glass, his hands clasped behind his back. 'Any new developments?'

'We lost one of the rats.' A page of notes is put into Father's hand. 'The large white one there became very angry, attacked the other and bit its eyes.'

Father looks at the white rat with interest. 'We know from naturalists' field journals that one possible effect of exposure is uncontrollable rage. No one has yet proved it in laboratory conditions. If we can gather enough examples, we can be the first. The military implications of that are obvious, hmm?' he says, swinging round.

'Being around magicite makes animals angry?'

'The Mist - the potent miasma magicite exudes - gets into some creatures' blood and brain. Perhaps into humes, too, though we haven't yet experimented on them!' The researchers laugh. 'It's an unpredictable substance, though. Rage is not its only effect, if the preliminary evidence is to be trusted.'

Father raises an eyebrow towards the researchers. They beam. One says, 'The female rabbit is pregnant!'

'Ah. That is gratifying. Monitor closely and document any abnormalities in the infants. We have a unique opportunity to clarify the role of Mist in the development of mutations. Perhaps even produce our own versions of those monsters that haunt old battlefields, the ones left behind to breed in blood- and Mist-soaked wastes until they became something quite different from their ancestors. Provided they don't destroy us in the process, hmm?' Father laughs, but for a moment there seems something other than humour in his eyes.

Since the adults seem to expect it, Ffamran tries to smile. Part of him wants to laugh at the idea of killer rabbits, pouncing on travellers like the big cats that inhabit the plains around Archades; but part of him in uneasy too, thinking of animals maddened by Mist and tearing each other to pieces.

He's glad to leave the room.

The corridor is quiet except for their footsteps. No sound or smell or flash of light escapes the laboratories; all the doors are sealed tight. He finds himself counting doors as Father leads the way, coat-tails flapping. How many more animals are behind there? How many pulsating rocks of magicite?

Father stops before a door at the end of the corridor. This one doesn't have a number but his initials, _CDB_.

'My office.'

It's like the larger twin of his study at home: a desk nearly hidden under papers, another table stacked with books, more papers tacked up on the walls. Hung over the desk is the family portrait painted the summer before Mother got sick. A scribbled note is stuck to its frame.

Father stands in the middle of the room, spreading his arms wide. 'Here is where I do my private thinking. This, my boy, is where all my airship designs were born. Here I form the seed of ideas that we test in our labs and make real.'

Looking at the layers of mess, the notes written and overwritten, Ffamran can indeed see the room as a reflection of his father's mind: endlessly searching, endlessly driven.

'And the experiments with magicite? You started those?'

'We have enemies, as you know. Growing in number all the time.' Father lifts both hands to massage his temples. 'Archades is not rich in land or material resources. Our power is our learning, our inventions, our scientific enquiry. How can we hold back from knowledge that will serve to defend us? If we can tap a power, then let us use it. Alas, we have not yet found the key to magicite. It lies somewhere, though. I feel it waiting for us.' He stretches his hands out, as though to pluck something from the air.

'You haven't found it? What about the experiments we saw?'

'Small things, very small. Oh, they work. They do exactly what we want. But their power is limited. In a war, do you win by taking out one person, one building at a time? By building one-person fighters a little faster than your opponent's? By making better weapons, if their only use is in a man-to-man mêlée? Once you could,' he continued, before Ffamran could answer, 'but not any more. Not when you're little Archades and the rest of the world is so large.'

'What is it you need to find, then?'

He's afraid of the answer, but can't stop himself asking the question.

'Something greater than the magicite we know. There are stories in old texts - '.

Father walks to the table of books. Following, Ffamran sees that the books aren't quite like those at home. Many are older, with strange curling letters, and bindings beginning to crumble away. One lies open at a picture of a tall, bearded man, holding in one hand a sword and, in the other, a globe of light.

'King Raithwall, who came from obscurity in a desert to forge the Galtean Alliance. Others, farther back in history, with similar careers. Rulers whose standing in the world changed suddenly; who could wield authority, who could dictate terms, in ways they couldn't before. No one knows quite how they did it. Historians have come up with one theory after another.'

'You have your own theory.'

Anything unexplained is a lure to Father. He says there's no mystery science can't solve.

'I think they discovered a weapon no one else had. One so powerful it was unanswerable. They didn't even need to use this weapon; they just needed to have it, and their rival cities and kingdoms did what they were told, out of fear.'

Father touches the glowing orb painted in the dead king's hand.

'Is that - magicite?'

'If Raithwall's weapon was magicite, it wasn't the magicite we know. But I'm following the thread, through records and paintings and stories on the wind. There are hints of these shadowy kings' abilities; what they did, what they threatened they could do. And magicite fits those hints - in essence. If magicite were far more powerful.

'Think of the power in a skystone, released not in dribbles but in a single burst. How strong would that be? What would it do? And now imagine you had a stone far more powerful than a normal skystone. Ten times, a hundred times more powerful. What would be the effect of that burst? I think it could destroy a city, don't you? Think of that: a lump of matter, no bigger than a cactus fruit, that could destroy a whole city.'

Ffamran doesn't know what to say. He knows war can be necessary; it's part of life in Archades. But this tale of doomsday weapons is not like any warfare he knows. This is not about fighting; this is about death for one side.

Father seems to shake himself. The gleam in his eyes fades. Closing the book, he meets Ffamran's eyes across the table. He smiles.

'But this isn't very exciting for you, hmm? Musty old tomes in your father's office. It's your day. What do you want to see?'

Letting out a breath, Ffamran smiles back. 'Airships. I'd love to see the new designs you're building.'

'Airships! Indeed! We'll go up to the roof - that's where our hangar is, in a great room we can open to the sky. You'll find the skeleton of a very nimble machine on the factory floor. If I ring a little bell, there might be some cake and ices waiting for us too.'

They ride the lift to the top floor. When Father opens the door, Ffamran's eyes are hit by blue sky and daylight.

The room is vast, the full length of the building. In the middle, in a sunken part of the floor, sits the new airship. As Father said, it's just a frame, but its sharp bow and raked-back wings seem already to be stretching towards the sky.

The far end of the room is open to the air, forming a launch pad from which ships can take their first flight. Warning lights flash around the opening. Ffamran walks close to the edge. The wind plucks at his hair and collar, blowing away the sterile chemical smell of downstairs. Below is a tangle of roofs and gardens. Even though Draklor is taller than the buildings around it, it must still be a dangerous place for launching experimental ships. He wonders if there have been accidents, and tries to push that thought away.

Beyond the city, the buildings thin into a haze of grassland and then the gold and blue line of the sea.

Father's looking at the skeletal ship, his attention claimed again. He walks around the model, maybe seeing some fault that needs fixing or some tweak that could make the ship go faster. Sometimes Ffamran can't blame him for not being more present. He understands the need to escape, to not deal with things like Mother's illness or those animals being poisoned in their cages.

Silently, he walks to Father's side. They gaze separately at the airship, both thinking of the day it will be ready to fly.

 _Final Fantasy XII belongs to Square Enix. This is an unauthorized fan work, written for pleasure only._


End file.
